The Ivory Tower
by BookishPower
Summary: The Astronomy Tower is the favorite place to snog for many interhouse couples. It's also the place where the usual rules don't seem to apply. Dramione one-shot, complete.


They really shouldn't be here.

Hermione inhaled on a shuddering gasp as Draco's fingertips skidded along her side, pressing against her shoulder blades, warm palms between her and the chilled stone of the Astronomy Tower. His lips on hers slowed slightly as she could feel him purposely and remorselessly working at the back clasp of her brassiere. They had had to pause earlier, as the Bloody Baron clanked up and down the stairs of the tower, but their swollen lips were testament to snatched moments in between.

She really shouldn't be doing this with him.

She would become a pariah in the Gryffindor House; her friends would disown her if they knew. Well, perhaps not disown her, but she would be pushed out of all confidences, no longer a completely trusted member of their tight circle. Not that the circle was particularly tight at the moment, but Hermione did want to maintain her friendship with Harry. Ron still annoyed her too much to stay in his company for long. It wasn't that she still fancied him – a boy who could toy with her affections like that was certainly _not_ fanciable - it was the way that he thought he could pick her up and drop her at a moment's notice and think that she would take his behavior with cheerful good humor.

But Draco - with his shared silence and midnight confidences, with eyes that both begged and demanded her attention – he was a temptation that could not be denied. The Astronomy Tower, favorite haunt of Hogwarts lovers, had been where she'd found him that first time, leaning on the icy railing, looking down at the ground below with a hungry look on his face that frightened her. She had approached him cautiously – she wasn't convinced of Harry's theory, but didn't doubt that he could strike like a viper when cornered.

To her surprise, he backed away from the railing immediately, no wand in his hand, but a suspicious look on his face.

"Potter's finally realized a Mudblood's only true use – as a spy," he muttered hollowly, the wit there, but the spirit behind it gone. "Not that you've really got a knack for it."

"I'm up here to expose these lionfish scales to moonlight," Hermione replied tonelessly. Then her expression changed. "You weren't going to…to jump, were you?"

He blinked owlishly, and Hermione's stomach gave an odd twist as he stepped forward a pace, into moonlight that gilded, softened his rather angular features.

"No," Draco said softly, looking at her closely, curiously. "Wouldn't solve my problems, and anyway, I wouldn't give you and your dimwit pals the pleasure."

"It wouldn't be a pleasure," she said stiffly. "Look, you're horribly rotten to me. But you're not worthless. There's something of value in you…besides your blood."

"So," she continued briskly, opening her bag and turning her face from his bewildered gaze. "You'd best start wearing thick socks if you keep considering the easy way out, because the moment you tip over the railing, my Mudblood hands will be grabbing your ankles."

He gave a short, surprised bark of laughter, and Hermione began laying out her dish and bag of scales, carefully tipping them all to one side, the better to catch the moonlight. A few minutes later, she glanced up, and saw him in the same position she'd left him, staring at her without focus.

Hermione shifted, feeling the reassuring shape of her wand pressing at her side. She waved her hand in an up-and-down motion, attempting to break his gaze.

"Are you all right? You looked a thousand klicks away." She expected some nasty retort, but he just turned on his heel, disappearing into the shadows of the tower. Hermione cocked her head, listening as the sound of his steps faded and was eventually overtaken by the clanking chains of the Bloody Baron, as he made his rounds through the tower.

She'd come back the next night, and he wasn't there. But the night after that, when the first of her fish scales began to turn the right shade of deep blue, he was there, leaning tensely against the railing, looking pensively into the Forbidden Forest. Hermione checked at this, but continued forward. Draco turned to watch her walk nearby, but she said nothing, suddenly suspicious that he might have tampered with her scales.

"Aren't you going to ask me if I'm going to jump?" he asked, a bit caustically.

"No," Hermione replied, brushing back her hair from her face as she bent over her work, examining the bruise-like coloration on some of the scales. "I warned you once. If you're not wearing thick socks, you're going to have to make the decision of whether or not to chop off your feet at the ankle afterward."

Draco grinned, his teeth pearlescent in the moonlight. Unbidden, her mother's advice – _Marry a man with good teeth. It says a lot about him_ – flitted through her mind.

"Granger, you've got a sense of humor," he said, looking amused. "Who knew?"

"Very few," she replied casually, keeping him in the corner of her eye. "It's a well-kept Gryffindor secret; like there are times of the day when Ron isn't hungry, and Lavender Brown actually knows which end of her wand to hold."

Draco snorted, and the sound ended in a deep chuckle. Hermione risked a glance at him and saw that his entire posture had changed. Where he had once been rigidly focused on what she surmised was a horrible thought or memory (his father was in Azkaban, after all), he was now relaxed, his joints looser, his body turned in her direction, away from the precipice of the tower. He had even moved a bit closer, leaning against the iron astrolabe at the center of the balcony.

"So tell me," she continued, uncorking a flask of acacia juice and adding it to the scales, "what secrets does Slytherin hold closely? Can Pansy Parkinson operate without a boyfriend? Does that Blaise Zabini have wives one, two, and three already picked out?"

Again, Draco laughed, and she studied the sound. Hermione reminded herself that he was laughing at an insult to his own friends – then remembered that she'd just made fun of Ron – but then, after his behavior with her and Lavender, Ron didn't count for these purposes.

"Parkinson can operate without a boyfriend," he replied, giving her that disarming smile (not a sneer). "The problem with her is that she considers blokes boyfriends who haven't really accepted that title. Zabini…well, he plays things close to the vest. Certainly every girl in Slytherin with a good inheritance gives him a wide berth for that reason."

Hermione giggled, then touched her lips, shocked at herself. She glanced up at Draco, who looked pleased with himself at her reaction.

"Any other secrets you're keen on sharing?" he asked, relaxing his neck so that his head rested on the column behind it. Hermione's eyes lingered there momentarily, before she reprimanded herself for forgetting who he was.

"None," Hermione said, "unless, of course, there are secrets that you're keen on sharing?"

The change was immediate, and Draco dropped his eyes from her, almost fearfully, turned, and walked away.

But he came back other nights. Sometimes she wondered if he wasn't suffering from a wasting illness, given his generally haggard appearance and new-found ability to talk somewhat civilly. Perhaps he was talking to her because he couldn't talk to anyone who, if they told, would be taken seriously.

Or perhaps she was making it up in her head. She thought he must be concealing something, but she doubted it was anything along the lines of what Harry imagined.

Every night, it seemed that he drew a bit closer, or looked a bit more relaxed in her presence. Once or twice, she walked onto the balcony to see him slumped against a column in the door's direction – almost as if he had been waiting and watching for her. Hermione began to feel a bit like someone feeding a wild animal, bringing it gradually closer and closer to her, without an idea of what would happen when he got close enough for her to touch.

He amused her with an observance on Snape (she'd never thought he would insult his favorite professor). She made him chuckle at the observation that the new Slytherin Seeker kept going to the hospital wing for Bludger-related injuries. The conversation was light, never touching on sensitive topics. Hermione wondered why he hadn't ever destroyed her store of lionfish scales curing in the moonlight – it would have forced her to seek another place to put them.

He continued to run into her (meet her?) on the Astronomy Tower – most nights without fail. The visits weren't long, and they often included a snipe at each other. She knew though, with a feeling that made her squirm uncomfortably, that she could just have easily found another place for her scales without running into him. Every night though, her feet turned in the direction of the Astronomy Tower without fail.

On her way back to the Gryffindor Tower one night close to the end of the semester, Harry came charging down the corridor, white-faced and brandishing his wand.

" _To arms! To arms! Charge!_ " crowed a tinny voice from behind him.

"Are you all right?" he wheezed, ignoring Sir Cadogan and several monks he was attempting to chivvy into action. "The Map…Malfoy…Astronomy Tower…"

"What?" Hermione asked, bewildered for a moment. "Oh, yes. Malfoy was up there." She glanced at the portrait. "It's all right, Sir Cadogan. No battle." The knight saluted her with his lance before riding out of the portrait.

"I saw you on the Marauder's Map," Harry continued, his breath back. "I thought he might…I dunno…but he's up to something, and you've never been in his good books."

"Considering the company in his good books, I doubt I'd want to be," Hermione said lightly, steering him back towards the Gryffindor Tower. "But no, he was just standing up there. Looked like he might pitch himself over the edge, frankly, but he left me alone."

"What were _you_ doing up there?" Harry asked, eyes narrowing just a tad, and she was sure, conjuring up an image of her with some boy other than Ron. Hermione fought back a scowl. Evidently, Ron could break a promise to her and run off with a prettier girl, but Hermione was expected to stay faithful to him no matter what.

She held up an empty potion bottle and a few collected lionfish scales. "Soaking lionfish scales in the moonlight with a few different potions. Hagrid's worried about that Acromantula of his, and I've been working with a few ideas. There's not much in the way of health tonics for spiders." She hoped he wouldn't hold up his Cliffs Notes-version of a Potions text as a possible solution – she wasn't certain whether she'd take that assistance or not, when Hagrid looked so miserable all the time.

"I wonder why," Harry murmured sarcastically, then returned to his obsession. "Malfoy didn't say anything?"

"We traded a few insults. Mostly we ignored each other," Hermione replied, shrugging, feeling reluctant to tell Harry that she'd joked around with his rival. "But he's been there on some past nights. Never with someone."

"Huh." Harry considered this for a moment while they waited for a line of ghosts to pass. "Was he signaling someone? Looking for something?"

"He wasn't doing anything that I could tell," she replied, getting tired of the conversation. "But I'll have to go up there most nights to keep working on the tonics. If he's up there again, I'll keep an eye on him. It'll free you up to do homework, rather than stalking Malfoy."

To her relief, Harry brightened at this. "You'll be all right?"

"I may not have earned an Outstanding in DADA or have the help of a book with all the answers," Hermione said, bristling, "but I am capable of holding off a morose-looking ferret, with or without backup."

To her surprise, Harry reached out an arm and touched her lightly between her shoulder blades, a world of comfort in the touch. She bit her lip and bowed her head to keep herself from crying – she wept far too much these days – and hoped he would know enough not to say anything.

"I don't suppose you'd mind looking over my Transfiguration homework," he asked tentatively, withdrawing his hand. "I can never do it half as well when you're not around."

Hermione sighed. Harry was exceptionally good at wheedling information and assistance out of people, though he would deny it. Unfortunately for him, she was tired of being comforted, then asked for homework help. Sometimes, in a very deep part of her - the part that she looked away from uncomfortably almost immediately after she'd thought it – Hermione wondered if she was just kept around for her study skills. She didn't believe so, but every once in a while, like then, she had her doubts.

"Sometimes, I wonder…" she muttered.

"Wonder what?" Harry asked.

Hermione grimaced, and shook her head. "Never mind."

The next night, still in her mussed dress robes, under the pretense of going to check the scales, Hermione fled back up to the Astronomy Tower. Nothing was at all the way she'd planned, or at least hoped for. Ron had made a point of snogging Lavender in the Common Room as she left for Slughorn's party, not burning up with jealousy. She wasn't finally on a date with him, able to see if after years of wanting him, he wanted her back. Instead, she was fending off the insistent pawing of McLaggen, who seemed to think that accompanying her to Slughorn's party entitled him to a rough, pinching tour of her curves. What was worse, Harry, who had only just come running to her rescue the night before, eyed her rumpled robes and her disheveled hair and told her that it served her right. _Served her right_. Words she never thought she'd hear from him.

Hermione swiped at her insistent tears roughly, gathering up the scales and other items she'd left along the Astronomy Tower's ramparts. She was undecided about staying up here until later, much later, after Ron and Lavender managed to untangle themselves and headed to their (hopefully) separate beds. Hopefully, Harry would have also gone to his bed, now that his concerns about Quidditch had been satisfied. She usually looked at the Christmas separation from her friends with a sense of wistfulness. This year, she was quite glad for this break from them both.

Noting the position of the moon, she used forefinger and thumb to calculate its arc, and decided that the scales would be best left near the ramparts. Despite her intentions of covering up her hurt feelings with work, tears kept slipping out in an annoying way. Vision blurry, she set down the dish of scales on the rampart ledge, and sobbed into her hand for a moment, hoping to get it out of her system.

"Don't _you_ jump off the ledge."

Hermione gave a start, and whirled around to see Draco, hands in his pockets, watching her with a frown.

"Wouldn't give you the pleasure," she snapped, looking intently at her lionfish scales. Of all people, she did not want him witnessing her private grief.

"Wouldn't be a pleasure," he said, ambling over to the side of her, resting his forearms on the balcony. Hermione tensed briefly – this was the closest they'd ever been, physically, since their meetings on the tower began. "After all, people would just think I pushed you. Rumor has it I'm already responsible for one attack this year."

Hermione chanced a furtive look at him beside her. His fists were balled, the knuckles white with suppressed emotion.

"They're idiots if they think you did that," she said firmly, keeping her eyes on the scales, turning them over on the dish. "You weren't even in Hogsmeade that day." Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his white-blond head, turned even paler in the moonlight, bow over his hands.

"Malfoy, you're not the nicest person in the world," Hermione said firmly, not certain why she was giving him a pep talk. "Or in this school. Or even on top of this tower. But you're not a murderer. You enjoy power and control far too much, you're inconsiderate of other people's feelings, and you are a natural bully."

"Does this have a point?" he asked roughly. "Or are you going to keep taking out whatever's got your knickers in a twist on recognizing my finer points?"

Hermione raised a hand in a placating gesture. "What I'm saying is that there's a difference between that and being someone truly evil. You don't like causing physical pain, and I think you actually do value certain people, and not just for what you can use them for. That kind of person is someone worth sticking up for."

She continued to try and be as nonchalant as possible about sorting her scales, aware that his eyes were fixed upon her in a stare.

The silence held for some minutes. Then, "So did you get dragged backwards through a hedge or something, Granger?"

"What? No – Cormac McLaggen."

"That prat with the Ministry dad?"

"And the grabby hands. Well, hooves."

" _Hooves?_ "

"Any boy who can't keep his hands off a girl after she's told him once doesn't deserve to keep them. They'll come off in a few hours, though I kind of feel sorry for Madame Pomfrey." She felt, rather than saw the sharp slice of his grin.

"Does he need a set of antlers to go with them?" Malfoy asked suddenly. "That why you were crying?"

She blinked. For a moment there, it sounded like he was offering… "Antlers? Oh, no. No, that – that was for different reasons."

"Then I hope you gave 'different reasons' a set of antlers before you left. Or at least some hooves."

Hermione laughed out loud, despite herself. "Unfortunately, no. Wish I had, though."

"Keep your hopes up, then. It's not Christmas yet."

She grinned. "Perhaps I will." The last scale turned over at the flick of her wand. "Happy Christmas, then."

"You're going home?" Malfoy turned fully towards her for the first time. "Thought you stayed here, mostly."

Hermione checked at the thought that he was keeping track of where she spent Christmas. "No, I'm staying here, but I assumed you were headed home."

"Not this Christmas," he said morosely, then changed his tone to something that almost sounded expectant. "You'll be up here in the evenings, then?"

It was the first time that either of them had ever mentioned their getting-to-be-a-habit out loud. Wanting it to remain normal, Hermione shrugged. "Aragog's not dead yet, though I don't think my tonics are doing him much good except as painkillers. So yes, I'll be here. You?" It came out almost as a challenge, and surprisingly, he rose to it.

"Yeah." When he wasn't smirking, she noted absently, he looked rather handsome, despite the dark circles under his eyes, the unhealthy pallor of his skin.

"All right, then." She nodded, and stepped away from his confusing proximity.

"Granger?"

"Hm?"

"I – I'll Obliviate the both of us if you ever repeat this – but you look- you look quite nice." Malfoy looked as if he already regretted saying it, and turned his eyes away. Hermione doubted it – she could feel the puffiness of her eyes, her tumbled hair, her rumpled gown.

"The same conditions apply," she replied, "if you ever tell anyone that I think you don't look too shabby yourself. Night."

With one unnerved glance at his startled face, Hermione slipped away, past the soft sounds of couples seeking dark corners in the tower. Normally, she might have given them all a warning to head back to their houses. But it was the last night before Christmas Break, after all, and they wouldn't see each other for some time.

"Happy Christmas to you all, then," she whispered, feeling generous, heading back to the tower.

As she walked back, Hermione caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror. She did look rumpled, it had to be said, but her half-smile from Malfoy's compliment and the feeling that he actually liked talking to her gave her a little blush, a faint glow in her eyes. It was a tiny bit of vindication, and whether that was good or bad – she didn't want to over-think it.

"Vanity!" squeaked a squat monk from a nearby portrait, pointing a triumphant finger at her.

"No," said Hermione, suddenly feeling a bit wicked. "Lust." She took a bit of pleasure in seeing the monk's jaw hanging open, and continued on her way.

She continued her little half-smile down the corridor, through the portrait hole (ignoring the Fat Lady's raised eyebrow), and into the Common Room. Once she realized there were other people who could see her, Hermione raised a hand to try and fix her hair, but couldn't lose that smile. Realizing how it might look to others, she turned to head up to the girl's dormitories. Halfway up the stairs, she heard Lavender's cross tones, asking Ron why he'd stopped.

The next day, once the school had mostly emptied out, Hermione felt her mind settle down. Most parents had brought their children home for the holidays during the uncertain state of affairs, therefore at mealtimes, it was only herself, Malfoy, a Ravenclaw fifth-year, and two Hufflepuff seventh-years. Professors McGonagall and Snape were not there consistently, and Hermione noted, with a growing feeling of anxiety, Professor Dumbledore had not been at meals since before Slughorn's party. Slughorn was there himself, as unctuous as ever, as were Sprout, Sinistra, Flitwick, and Hagrid.

"How is Aragog, Hagrid?" Hermione asked, catching him as the meal ended. She spoke quietly, uncertain if anyone else was supposed to know about the Acromantula – then realizing with a start that she'd already spoken to Malfoy of him.

But Malfoy hadn't done anything. Perhaps he was too distracted?

"Not good, not good," Hagrid gruffed sadly. "His kind don't really care for snow and cold. Gets hard on them…and him so old already…" His eyes filled with tears, and Hermione patted his hand.

"Don't give up hope yet, Hagrid," she said. "He's old, yes, but so is Professor Dumbledore. And I wouldn't lay any bets against either of them. Sometimes, getting older just makes you more formidable."

With a sobbing howl, Hagrid embraced her. Hermione tried to hug back, while trying to breathe against the pressure on her ribs and get her feet back on the floor as her toes skated for purchase in the giant's embrace. When he released her, she tried to quietly get her breath back, handing Hagrid her handkerchief.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Draco Malfoy pause as he left the table, watching her, much as he had on the tower the night before. It was odd to see him like that – she often thought of 'Malfoy of the Tower' as a completely different entity than 'Malfoy of Everywhere Else'.

Hagrid caught her attention again, and she took back the handkerchief, trying to unobtrusively _Scourgify_ the snot and bogies from it before tucking it back into her robes. When she glanced back in Malfoy's direction, he had gone.

That night, when she arrived at the tower, Malfoy was there, as usual, before her and in a snit.

"I'm not a charity case, Granger," he snapped, as soon as she'd arrived. "Don't you dare treat me like one of those idiot oafs you call friends. I'm not going to sob on your shoulder."

"I doubt you would," she replied lightly, unstoppering a bottle of Essence of Spiderwort, and letting it splash the fresh batch of scales. "Hagrid needed the hug, though."

"And the pep talk? Like the one you gave to me?" He sounded oddly strained and - hurt?

"Good Lord, Malfoy," she said, stirring the solution gently, "I was giving Hagrid some words of comfort about his pet, and I was lying through my teeth. I was giving you the truth – but not a hug, since I expect you'd pitch me over the tower first – or yourself. I give my friends pep talks, but you and I aren't exactly friends, are we?"

"No, we're not."

They stood in silence a while longer, Malfoy staring out into the distance, and Hermione examining the scales minutely for the vein-like pattern of blue.

"How is your project going, then?" he asked, sounding awkward.

Hermione shrugged one shoulder, glancing up at him. "I'm trying different solutions to slow the absorption of moonlight. If I can slow it down enough, I can catch the scales when they're most efficacious. So far, though…I really don't know how much good it's going to do Aragog. And I'm not willing to get close enough to examine him."

Beside her, Malfoy chuckled. "Nothing good comes out of that forest."

"No, not much. Have you been there much since first year?"

"Not if I can avoid it. I'm far too fond of this face to see it end up smashed under a centaur's hoof."

"Not even to help someone else?"

"No."

"Don't you ever think of anyone else besides yourself?"

"Of course. I just think of myself first." He gave her a long look. "There are certain people who I'd risk it for. Not many, though."

"Pansy?" she asked, giving him a sly smile.

"Absolutely not," he sniffed. "Matter of fact, I think I'd rather risk the centaurs than have to listen to her plan out what kind of wedding dress she's going to marry me in."

"You're getting married? Aren't we all a little young for that?" Hermione asked, her tone rising in surprise.

"I've got no intentions of getting married," he said brusquely. "Pansy, however, feels that me asking her to the Yule Ball qualified as a proposal."

"Sure about that?" Hermione grinned. "Just think – you could have lots of pug-faced babies and dress them all in pink frills. Should go together wonderfully if they get your hair."

Malfoy began to laugh, and Hermione, smirking, realized with a start that she'd been teasing _Draco Malfoy_.

"I'd expect, Granger, that you'd risk it for a lot of people," he said quietly, after their laughter had died down.

She considered it. "Probably. If their lives were in danger."

"Would I be among them?" There was an odd note in his voice.

"Of course. Gryffindor heroics and all that," she replied, taking note of the serious look in his eyes. Then, plunging forward, as if by saying it quickly he might not understand the full import, she said, "And who else would keep me company by trading insults up here?"

"Of course," he replied, eyes shining once more. "Say, Granger, is that your hair or did a mop attack your head?" There was no heat behind it now, just what sounded to her like an odd affection.

"No," she replied equably. "Say, Malfoy, is that your nose, or am I actually talking to a Hippogriff?"

"Mine was better."

"It was uninspired. Everyone attacks my hair."

"And yours was inspired?"

"Your nose is sharp enough to chop carrots. Anyway, night."

He turned around as she pushed away from the wall and began the walk back to the tower. "Hey, Granger, we've got to finish this!"

"No we don't. Think of a better one and tell me tomorrow." She paused. "Night, Malfoy."

She got a few steps farther before the soft "Night, Granger" reached her ears.

A few days later, just before Christmas, a small flock of owls descended upon the miniscule crowd at dinner. Hermione received a brief letter from Ginny, noting that everyone at the Burrow was all right, but that she had to share with Fleur. She grimaced in sympathy. The letter said little to nothing about Harry and Ron, only that Harry had offered to help her with decorating the tree. It was a speculative little fact in its bareness, and Hermione twisted her lips in a small smile to think that perhaps Ginny was picking up on Harry's increased attention. Perhaps she'd break up with Dean and-

Her train of thought was cut off by the sight of Malfoy receiving his own mail, what looked like an elegant Christmas card in cream and gold. His expression did not change, but she saw him go paler than pale, the bruise-like shadows under his eyes standing out in stark contrast.

That night, when she approached the balcony of the Astronomy Tower, nodding to the Bloody Baron as they passed on the stairs, she felt oddly expectant. Something bad had happened, she could tell. How would Malfoy react?

The moment she saw him, she felt the charge in the atmosphere like electricity dancing across her skin, her hair standing on end and goosebumps tickling. His posture was no longer morose or casual, but taut and alert, white-knuckling the railing. Malfoy glanced over his shoulder at her approach, and held her eyes as she moved nearer, over to the dish of scales.

Something was going to happen. She didn't know what, but the air was tense with anticipation.

"Granger, would you do me a favor?" he asked.

"Depends. What is it?" she replied, her voice a little hoarse, looking down the ramparts to break the hold of his eyes.

"Tell me…tell me about when you found out that you could do magic," he requested.

Hermione paused. Of all questions, this was the one she least expected. "Hmmm. I think I must have been four or so. I was with my mother, and we were about to cross a busy street. I broke free and decided to run across by myself. A bus – you know what a bus is? Like the Knight Bus."

She glanced up at him to see that his attention had not wavered – it made her self-conscious, and she looked back down at her hands.

"Anyway, it was about to run me over and kill me, and Muggle buses don't have the magical ability to not hit things if the driver doesn't hit the brakes." She could still smell the burning rubber in the air, feel her eardrums rattle in pain at the shriek of the brakes. "I stopped to watch it – I was too afraid to move, I expect – and the bus jumped over me. Its shadow broke the sunlight, and it floated in the air, all the way over my head…before it landed with a thump and kept on driving." She could remember her mother's tears of shock and fright, of being gripped so tightly in her arms that she could hardly breathe, the astonished, glassy stares of other people who had witnessed it.

Malfoy finally broke his gaze, staring down at his own hands as they gripped the railing. "Were there other times?"

Hermione thought back. "Yes, and it began to frighten me. I didn't know what I was – only that when I tried to pick up stones from the bed of a stream, they would turn into flowers. When I passed my hand over Muggle illustrations in books, the pictures would move." He said nothing, so she continued.

"When my best friend was being beaten up by some bullies, I reached up to slap one of them, and he ended up on the other side of the playground with his head in the sand. I had detention for a month – they didn't believe me when I said I never touched him."

"After being on the receiving end of one of those slaps, I think he got off lucky," Malfoy murmured, his voice croaky, but his thoughts somewhere else.

These were things that she'd never told Harry or Ron. These were things they'd never asked her. "I couldn't tell anyone what I could do – not even my parents. I couldn't tell them what really happened, because they would have thought I was crazy – they might have gone so far as to lock me up. I was so afraid – until Professor McGonagall knocked on our door."

"Because you have magic." His voice sounded odd, and Hermione glanced at him, where he stood unmoving.

"Yes." Malfoy's long white fingers flexed rhythmically, and she watched them.

"You have magic." It wasn't a question. A retort was on her lips for his repetitiveness, but she checked at his hoarse voice, his bowed head, his clenching fingers.

"Speaking of, it's icy out here," she said lightly, drawing her wand from her pocket, casting a wordless heating charm. The abrupt change from chilled wind to warm breeze was enervating, her skin alive with the change in energy. Malfoy's head rose slowly, and she knew he felt it, too.

He studied her closely – not as a bug, or some odd and loathsome creature, or even as a brave bookworm. The way Hermione decided he looked at her was the way she'd always wanted to be looked at. A thousand scattered and discarded thoughts began to coalesce into one frightening and desirable possibility, swirling through her chest, racing through her veins.

Strangely enough, it was her hand that first felt his touch, and she wasn't sure whether to feel disappointed, or glad, or whether she should pull away…but he was warm. His hand was smooth and warm, and Hermione stood, rooted to the spot as if she were being charged with electricity. With an almost tickling slowness, he explored her hand on the banister, sweeping down the callused length of her fingers, tracking the blue veins down to her wrist, circling the hardness of her knuckles, the slender span of her wrist. She snuck a glance at his face, and found that Draco was focused on her hand with an intensity that almost frightened her. Dazed, and in what felt like half-speed, she turned her hand over at his silent urging, and Draco took her fingers in a light grip, his thumb brushing back and forth over her middle finger.

Instinctively, she curled her fingers in, bringing his hand into a light grasp. Hermione found that she liked his fingers, long and strong, calluses softening since his departure from the Quidditch team, she guessed. All the Gryffindor Quidditch players she knew had callused hands from their grip on the broomsticks. Draco was nearly as tall as Ron, but where Ron was lanky, Draco had a wiry build, all angles and sinews. She blinked at the thought that she was comparing the two in this.

Perhaps he saw her blinking, but some fright entered Draco's eyes, and once again, he broke away from their little circle of warmth on the balcony, real panic on his face this time.

That night, safe within the privacy of her empty dormitory, Hermione paced the floor in circles. She'd thought it; she couldn't deny it to herself. She'd thought it, and knew that he'd thought it, too. What could she do? She would have to find another spot for the scales, that much was perfectly clear.

And yet…

She circled the room in agitation until midnight, recalling the touch of his warm fingers, imagining the looks of horror on her friends' faces if they knew – if they even _suspected…_

Christmas morning saw a small pile of presents at the foot of her bed. She'd woken to Crookshanks' irritated leap from the bed as the owls deposited the gifts at her feet. Hermione found a box of special owl treats to thank them for their service – it was _Christmas_ , after all – and turned to face the stack.

Her parents had gifted her with a pretty leather jacket from them both, some Muggle history books from her father, and a sweet-smelling lotion from her mother. She had gifted them both with coats charmed to stay warm, and a travel guide to Australia – where they were forever talking of going for a second honeymoon.

Hagrid had sent her rock cakes and a woven-grass necklace with a cleverly-crafted spider hanging at the bottom, representative of Aragog, in response to her gift of candy and treats for him and Fang. Ron had sent nothing, and she had returned the sentiment. She supposed that word of her rift with Ron had gotten to Mrs. Weasley – there was no sweater or card from the Weasley household. _That_ actually stung, and she found herself blinking back a tear or two.

Not all members of the Weasley household had blackballed her, though. Hermione sent Fred and George _Engorgio! Expanding Your Business_ , with a note indicating that as successful as they'd been, she doubted that they'd need the advice. In return, they sent her a full case of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes' fireworks, with a sweet and unexpected note to the effect that while they doubted she'd use them to skive off classes, they would give her a means to celebrate her academic triumph.

She'd gifted Harry with _Ninety-Nine Helpful Tips from Victorious Quidditch Captains_ and a sack of Chocolate Frogs. He had gifted her with _When You Can't Take It Back – A Theory of Memory Charms_ , a book she rather suspected had been grabbed at random off a shelf and possibly was meant to urge her to make up with Ron, but was glad to see nonetheless. After getting Ginny a broomstick servicing kit, she received a much more enjoyable read – _The Witch's Mystique – A History of Witches Working For Equality and Recognition_.

She supposed it was silly to wonder if _he_ was going to send her something. They weren't in the Astronomy Tower, after all.

After a hearty Christmas lunch with Dumbledore in attendance (and _he_ was not), Hermione took a wrapped package of hand-knitted socks with the intent of visiting Dobby in the kitchens.

The smell of yeast and onions was thick and pleasant in the air after Hermione tickled the pear and entered the kitchens. The house-elves seemed to mysteriously disappear every time she entered (contrary to what Harry thought, she was not unaware that most house-elves seemed to consider liberation on par with the plague), so their absence when she walked in was not unusual.

Looking hungrily at the rising loaves of bread, Hermione stopped dead at the sound of another voice – not squeaky or in a deep base, like a house elf's, but deeper – a boy on the cusp of manhood.

"And she is safe, yes?"

"Yes, young master," came a voice like a bullfrog's croak, which could only be that of a house-elf. "Mistress Malfoy does not sleep or eat like she used to, but Gropper knows when his mistress is in danger. Gropper tries to get her to eat and sleep more, but Mistress Malfoy is writing many letters for the release of the master."

It was Draco. Hermione looked about wildly for a place to conceal herself, settling on a nook where she crouched among bushels of potatoes and strings of garlic bulbs and peppers. A house-elf passing by noticed her, but she put a finger to her lips, and the elf nodded.

She strained to hear the next bit of conversation, and then wished she hadn't.

"Is she…does she cry often?"

"Mistress weeps most days, young master. Zippy is often trying to help her stop, but mistress is saying she cannot help it, she is frightened. We is keeping fresh handkerchiefs on hand."

There came a sound that Hermione was familiar with – a hard gulp that meant someone was swallowing back their own tears.

"Does she often have…visitors, Gropper?"

"Not so many as before, young master."

There was a silence, and Hermione suspended her breath, afraid she'd been caught.

"All right then," came Draco's voice. "Thanks for telling me. Please tell Mother that I'm all right. Oh, and this is for you."

There was the sound of wrapping crinkling. "Young master! You has given Gropper a blanket!"

"Gets cold sometimes, doesn't it?" Draco said in a rush, and Hermione thought he might be a bit embarrassed. "Anyway, Happy Christmas, Gropper. No one else looks after Mother like you."

There was the sound of a boot swiveling on stone and the crack of a house elf Disapparating, and Hermione edged back as Draco strode out of the kitchens. She continued to sit there, confounded by Draco's behavior, before Dobby's cheery voice greeted her.

Much later, Hermione paced her dormitory again. Who was this Draco Malfoy that she was getting to know? What was at the root of the stresses pinching his face and clouding his eyes? Why hadn't he gone home for the holidays to his lonely mother? What was with his cordial behavior to the house-elf? Why did he continue to meet with her in the tower? Why had he questioned her so about her childhood? And why had he touched her the way that he had the night before?

Would she go up to the tower again that night? Hermione worried her lip, sorting through her Christmas reading material, unable to concentrate.

She wouldn't come to the Tower that night. On that, she was decided.

Finally, the dinner hour came, and she had no choice but to straighten her robes, grit her teeth, and head down to the Great Hall's consolidated table. He'd missed lunch – there wasn't much chance of him missing dinner as well.

She happened upon an interesting tableau when she did arrive in the Great Hall, however. Draco had seated himself as far away from Dumbledore as possible, though Snape seemed to have taken it upon himself to sit on Draco's other side. Dumbledore seemed not to notice any of this, not Snape's exceptionally sour face, nor Draco's fixed expression at anything besides the Headmaster.

Professor McGonagall, on the other hand, was adjusting sprigs of holly along the brim of her hat, with some assistance from Professor Sprout, who was reassuring her that her fingers were tough enough to withstand a few thorn-pricks.

Hermione took a seat at the consolidated table across from McGonagall, smiling tentatively. Only once did her eyes stray towards Malfoy, who kept his eyes trained on his plate and his responses monosyllabic, retreating from the table as quickly as possible.

She glanced again, though, as he walked away, and their eyes met as he looked over his shoulder. He held her gaze for an interminable second, and she could feel the both of them wondering. Draco broke it, walking away, and leaving the Great Hall behind.

Hermione stared at her potatoes with something akin to resignation. She was going to the Tower that night. She had to know.

When she arrived at the tower, some time later, it was with an air of trepidation. She clutched a bottle of coral bell juice in her hand like the flimsy excuse it was.

When she neared the top step, however, the dark shape of Malfoy was leaning against a parapet, waiting and watching for her arrival. Evidently, he was through with flimsy excuses.

"I didn't think you would come."

"I didn't think you would come, either."

"But we're both here. What do you make of that?" He looked at her as if he really did expect a cogent explanation from her for their mutual behavior.

"That we're both very curious people?" It sounded lame even as it left her lips, and to judge by his glare, not the answer he was looking for.

"Granger, are you sure you're a Gryffindor?"

She bristled. "What do you mean by that?"

"Exactly what I said." He swallowed convulsively, and it struck her for the first time that he might be nervous about this…whatever it was. "We're alone up here. The professors don't care. No students are coming up here to snog. No one's keeping tabs on me, no one's asking you for answers."

"Except you."

"It was an answer I thought you'd be prepared to give. I thought I was fairly clear last night."

Hermione swallowed. "It's…it's not exactly something I can study and cross-reference in the library, you know."

After a long moment, in which they sized each other up, Hermione wondering what was going on in his head, he sighed.

"I supposed Obliviation's always an option…"

"Draco, stop it," she snapped, annoyed. "You think the consequences aren't as bad on my side? You think my friends wouldn't disown me, my house treat me as an outcast?"

His eyes narrowed. "Yes, I think your idiot friends and your house would disown you. But we'll have to disagree about the consequences part."

"Fair point." She stared at her shoes, unable to meet his eyes. "Do you even _like_ me?" The sentence came out small and vulnerable, and her stomach twisted.

"You're…tolerable," Draco managed to get out, moving closer to her. "I like talking to you. I like making you laugh. I like who I am up here. Does that count?"

It was actually more than she thought she'd get out of him…or any boy, to be frank. "I think so," she replied, feeling her cheeks burn.

"Just up here, though," Draco said quickly. "You know why."

Hermione felt her heart in her throat, her gaze locked on his lips. "Yes." A thought hit her, then. "But if this is some elaborate scheme against me or my friends...you screw me over, and I will make your life a living hell."

"Granger, my life is already a living hell," he replied, a corner of his mouth turning up ruefully. "Everything except when I'm up here."

He was very close…much closer than she'd thought. Draco's eyes were trained on her lips, but he seemed unable to make that final leap. Gryffindor to the core, she reached up, tracing the hard line of his jaw, cupping his cheek, and kissed him. She was unsure if he would pull away at this – perhaps she'd misinterpreted everything! – but his mouth opened slightly, and he kissed her back. No matter what, she would always know that.

Since then, it's as if life within the tower has greatly simplified for both of them. Below the tower, they are enemies, though distracted ones – he by whatever is stressing him, she by her schoolwork and strife with her friends – rivals from different houses, separated forever by their bloodlines. In the tower, it's as if all of that doesn't matter – the realities of life don't touch them there, and they can be two teenagers seeking happiness in each other. Even their names were different – last names on the outside, first names on the inside.

If he saw them on the Marauder's Map, Harry would just think that Hermione was keeping an eye on Draco. The Slytherins had been warned to stay away from Draco when he was up there. Anyone else snogging up there knew enough not to try and unlock a locked door, or push into a nook warded by a Protego. It was their own blissful bubble of privacy, where all of the normal rules no longer applied to their lives.

Hermione's paternal grandfather had never really gotten on with her father, so far as she could tell. After years of hard manual labor, seeing Hector Granger go off to higher education and earn a doctorate must have been hard. She'd spent a week with them one summer when she was eight, pretending to be asleep on the couch while hearing Grandpa complain to Grandma in the kitchen that Hector was living "up in an ivory tower" with his "doctor-wife," and that they were raising their daughter to be a swot.

Hermione never really liked her grandfather after that.

She did, however, ask her father what living in an ivory tower meant. Hermione watched her father's face closely as a storm of emotion passed through it, then cleared as he lifted his eyebrows. An ivory tower, he explained, was a metaphor for a place where people "shut out the everyday world." Hermione furrowed her brow, and her father sighed and explained that people often called higher learning an ivory tower, since they viewed the problems of the world from a place of peace and comfort.

Hermione gamely admitted to herself that she was likely shutting herself into an ivory tower with Draco most nights. She could not, however, find it within herself to care.

She needed this, needed the comfort of his arms, the fire of his kiss, the thrilling danger of the fact that she was carrying around a secret known only to them. Draco, she suspected, needed this just as badly, though for reasons he was unable to voice.

If his words to her hadn't convinced her, his lithe tongue touching her own, her hands up his shirt, his leg between her own seemed to speak the truth of his change of heart. At the moment, however, all his focus had shifted to her brassiere clasp, fumbling and tugging at the material. Everything else about him seemed to stop – she could feel him pouting against her lips, instead of kissing them.

"Alohomora," he muttered quietly, with another fruitless tug. "Damn it." She laughed against his mouth, quite unlike herself.

She had no idea how far she would let him go – and something within her noted that that wasn't the greatest idea in the world. But the effort of trying to puzzle that out at the moment seemed like too much, and his lips were very distracting-

Then, a voice interrupted, and the low tones sent Hermione's blood temperature plummeting. She froze, and felt Draco do the same against her lips.

"Exactly what do you think you are doing, Mr. Malfoy?" Draco can sneer with the best of them, but only Professor Snape's voice had the ability to actually make a person feel small and stupid.

She looked up to see her own terror reflected in Draco's grey eyes. He didn't seem able to respond, but slowly unwound his arms from her waist, waiting for the blow to fall. Distractedly, Hermione felt a looseness around her chest – evidently Draco had finally succeeded in unfastening her brassiere clasp.

"Let go of your companion so I can mark her down for a detention as well," Snape continued. Draco backed up, and suddenly Snape's face was peering into the alcove at her.

Only long experience had taught Hermione that Snape showed surprise the most when his facial expression did not change. Indeed, the muscles in his face had gone still – he didn't even seem to be blinking as he stared at her rumpled visage.

"Come out of there, Miss Granger," Snape finally said, backing up to allow her passage. "The two of you, follow me."

There was a roaring in Hermione's ears that must have been her blood. All she could see, looking blindly at the trailing of fabric of Snape's robes as he preceded them down the stairs, was the shock on her friends' faces, the complete isolation from all friends and acquaintances in her house. She was staring down a year and a half of lonely meals at the house table, long nights at the library, abandonment by everybody except Crookshanks. Would people believe her if she said they were fighting, and Snape mistook it for snogging? It might be believable, and Snape wasn't exactly trusted by her friends…but what a lie to carry!

It wasn't a sob – she was _not_ going to cry! – but as they exited the tower, waiting for Snape to close the door, Hermione felt her chest heave in a shaking breath.

She received her second shock of the night as warm fingers sought out her hand, squeezing them quickly, reassuringly.

Hermione looked at Draco in shock. It was the first time that he'd ever touched her outside the tower. But really, wasn't he facing the exact thing she was? She squeezed back, almost in defiance. They squeezed together tightly, then dropped their hands to realize that Snape had been watching them instead of closing the tower door.

Once more, his face was immobile, unreadable. After several moments, however, he must have reached a conclusion, since he reached over and shut the door with a _clang_.

"It occurs to me," he said, speaking as calmly as if they were in class, "that the Astronomy Tower is simply too great a temptation for students. I shall be speaking to Professor Sinistra about placing a password on the door after her classes are finished. I think that "surprise" would be a good password to use. I shall recommend it. Now, back to your houses, both of you."

Without waiting for them to depart, Snape turned on his heel and left.

They watched him go, then turned to look at each other, staring dumbly.

Professor Severus Snape, who hated Gryffindors with a passion, was suddenly able to overlook her misbehavior if she was with his favorite student – even seemed to be encouraging them. Draco Malfoy, scion of a house that despised witches and wizards from her background, threw himself into their rendezvous each time as if he'd never get to touch her again. And she, Hermione Granger, as red-blooded a Gryffindor as they came and as straight an arrow as ever flew, she was sneaking out on a regular basis to snog her best friend's rival – a Slytherin, whose other activities she wasn't entirely certain of.

Life was more complex, more insane than she'd ever believed before. What was more…it had happened outside of the tower.


End file.
